


Far Away

by GW99



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail is alive!, Alana doesn't approve, Angst, Canon Divergent, Encephalitis Will, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hannibal calls Will "dear Will" and it's precious, Hannibal flirts a lot, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal is in prison, He still talks to him, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Manipulative Will, Murder Family, Prison Pen Pal AU, Will "I don't find you that interesting but also I kinda do" Graham, Will Knows, Will does this thing where he remembers others' personalities and mimics them to get what he wants, Will is not, Will is oblivious, Will sees the stag, eventually, he's just bored, i don't know how to tag, oh yes this is happening, then it's mostly canon, up until The Great Red Dragon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-10-26 15:43:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GW99/pseuds/GW99
Summary: Other more important matters shoved the idea farther back than he had intended for it to go. He'd had a dozen more cases in the months since their meeting, more than a few meetings with Alana at Jack’s request, and he'd even found another dog to bring into his home. Now, with the whiskey settled warmly in his stomach, Will thought back to the words of a man he’d met only a handful of times.His laptop sat on his lap, and he typed ‘serial killers alive’ in the search bar. He rolled his eyes at himself, scrolling through the list before he saw a rather familiar name glaring up at him: Hannibal Lecter.He also happened to know that Hannibal Lecter was kept at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. How could he not know? Freddie Lounds wrote of nothing but Lecter for weeks after he'd been caught.He didn't bother looking up the proper protocol for sending a letter to an inmate. If he was an FBI Consultant, then he obviously knew something. He wasn't an idiot, after all.Dear Hannibal...





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter has been written for a long time, but I hadn't been able to work up the courage to post it. I like the idea of this being an AU, but I'm not sure how well everyone else will accept it.
> 
> If it is enjoyed, I will hope to post a chapter every two weeks.
> 
> I hope you guys like it.

For years, Will found ways to deal with loneliness and boredom. It started with a stray dog, which eventually led to two, then three, then seven, and now he had a whole house full of them. The FBI’s screening process was too strict for him to become a detective, so he got himself a nice teaching job at the academy. This kept him busy more often than not.

When Jack Crawford barged into his classroom one day during office hours asking for help on a case, Will tried to reject. He tried to argue and say that he shouldn’t, but eventually, he gave in. It may not have been healthy - and Alana repeatedly told him how much she disapproved - but it kept his mind occupied and off the fact that he was alone. Getting into the minds of killers and taking on their persona was not anyone’s ideal job, and especially not Will Graham’s, but it paid well enough.

He’d helped catch murderer after murderer, ultimately saving many lives; however, their current case was one that they were stuck on. Nine people were buried alive in shallow graves and kept in a catatonic state as a means of assisting in the growth of mushrooms. The fungi cover each victim's entire body. This killer is sadistically elaborate, and Will had to stop himself from complimenting the intricacy of it all while still in this killer’s mindset.

Jack was already considering putting Will with a psychiatrist. He didn’t need to give him that last little nudge.

After three days of no new leads, Jack sent Will to the United States Penitentiary in Maryland to interview a killer they’d caught previously who might be able to help them. This had been their last resort, but they knew that if they waited long enough, their killer would slip between their fingers and escape. Acting now was the only option.

Abel Gideon had just barely escaped an insanity plea, but being around him still unnerved Will to no end. Gideon could change his personality almost as drastically as Will, so the profiler had a hard time reading him, even with his empathy problem.

“Will Graham?” One of the guards came up to him as he walked in the door.

“Yes,” Will answered, voice not trembling like it may have when he first started this job. Even though he didn't enjoy talking to people any more now than he did back then. “I'm here to see Abel Gideon.”

“Yes, of course. We spoke on the phone, I believe,” the guard said, nodding once. As he turned to lead the way, Will got a glimpse of his name tag and filed away the name ‘Barney’ to remember for later.

He slid on his glasses when they approached the door, wanting to avoid as much eye contact as possible with this murderer.

“I'll be standing right outside. Just yell if you need anything,” Barney instructed, opening the door for Will to step inside with a quiet mumble of thanks as it shut behind him.

“Will Graham of the FBI,” Gideon goaded before Will could even sit down, let alone make his introductions. The man spoke slowly with a smirk on his lips that showed Will just how confident he was. No, confident wasn't the right word… _Cocky._ “Hasn't anyone ever told you you're too _pretty_ to be an FBI agent?”

“I'm not an agent,” Will snapped, just barely glancing at Gideon as he pulled out the case file.

“Oh?” Came Gideon’s reply. “Are they sending students to try and interview me now?”

“I'm a… special consultant,” Will muttered then, looking at the rim of his glasses instead of Gideon. His eyes flickered down to where Gideon’s wrists were caught in a pair of handcuffs attached to a hook on the table. He could move just a little, but not enough to cause any damage.

“Now, Jack Crawford wouldn't send an _amateur_ to speak to me,” Gideon said knowingly, that same infuriating smirk on his lips. “So why would he send _you?_ What makes you so special, Will Graham?”

Instead of answering, Will opened up the file and slid over the pictures of the mushrooms growing out of decomposing bodies.

“This man is burying people, feeding them intravenously to keep them alive until the mushrooms can start to grow,” he explained, spreading out the multiple pictures across the cold desk. Gideon looked at them, moving them around to get a better view of each and every one, for many silent moments.

“Have you considered that he may be wanting to form connections between these bodies via the fungi?” Gideon asked, finally looking at Will again. “May I?” He asked, wanting to look the man in the eye without the obstruction of those glasses. He reached out, the chain just barely long enough for him to take Will’s glasses off and set them on the table. “That's better.”

Will hated how exposed he felt sitting across from Gideon without that protection. His eyes darted over Gideon’s face, then down to the pictures again. He knew he was making himself seem vulnerable, so he straightened up, squaring his shoulders and very deliberately lifting his eyes to meet Gideon’s. Showing vulnerability was the quickest way to be manipulated and changed into something he wasn't - something he didn't want to be - so he slipped into the persona of a more confident man. This wasn't someone in particular he'd met before - no, this was a combination of the different minds he'd allowed himself to know. Confidence from Beverly Katz, firmness from Jack Crawford, and underlying warmth from Alana Bloom with just a hint of danger from the Minnesota Shrike. _See?_

_See?_

He saw. His lips curled up into a smirk reminiscent of the one Abel Gideon had worn up until moments before. He could tell he'd caught the prisoner off guard with this smooth shift into someone else, but he didn't let that pleased little glint show in his eyes.

“What kind of connections?” He asked, never taking his eyes off of Gideon’s. He was sure that if he did, he wouldn't be able to meet them again.

“Any kind, really,” Gideon cleared his throat, sliding one of the pictures back to Will. “Mushrooms form connections with the ones around it and they create their own… community, of sorts. This man may want to form those same kinds of connections with the people he sees around him. This is the only way he knows how.”

Will nodded his head slowly, taking in the new information from Abel Gideon.

“He may be looking to connect in a way that our own minds can't. He wants someone to understand him,” the man continued.

Gideon realized that Will wasn't going to reply, so he looked through the autopsy reports for another short while.

“They all died from kidney failure?” He asked, flipping through the different pages with a furrowed brow. “With… sugar water in the catheters… Were they diabetic?”

That was all it took for everything to click in Will’s mind. He stiffened in a barely noticeable way, then quickly gathered all of the pictures and papers into the folder again.

“Obviously he knew they were diabetic,” he began speaking, slipping back into his own mind with only a dull pain growing behind his eyes. “Which means he had access to their medications. I'll look at local pharmacies and doctor’s offices. Thanks for your help, Dr. Gideon,” he said, stuffing the file back into his briefcase before he was grabbing his glasses and standing up. He knocked on the door, nodding once at Barney when it was opened before he was being led out of the penitentiary.

“Did he help any?” Barney asked as he walked quickly so as to keep up with Will since he was rushing.

“Yes, quite a bit,” Will answered distractedly.

“He communicates a lot with people outside of here, but I think he's missed actually talking to someone.”

This made Will slow down just a little as he looked over at Barney, who seemed rather grateful for the slower pace.

“Does he?” He asked, brows furrowing.

“Oh, yeah, he gets more mail than anyone here. We read everything that goes in or out, of course, to make sure he's not planning anything.” Barney assured, opening another door and leading Will to the final glass door that led outside.

“Who sends him letters?”

“Fans, I suppose. There are some strange people out there. Can't say I understand why someone would want to talk to a murderer like him.”

Will hummed once and nodded his head, wondering the same himself. Part of him could see why someone would want to talk to a serial killer. The danger and the psychological understanding of someone so different. Will got enough of that at work. The other, bigger part of him, didn't understand why someone would want to poison their mind with the struggle to understand how someone could turn so dark so fast.

“I'll see you, Barney,” he raised a hand in a wave before pushing the door open and rushing to his car. Before it was even started, he already had Jack on the phone.

*****************

Other more important matters shoved the idea farther back than he had intended for it to go. He'd had a dozen more cases in the months since their meeting, more than a few meetings with Alana at Jack’s request, and he'd even found another dog to bring into his home. Now, with the whiskey settled warmly in his stomach, Will thought back to the words of a man he’d met only a handful of times.

His job was a good distraction for as long as it kept him busy, but the second he was at home without a case to worry over, he was bored again. He never made good decisions when he was bored; he tended to get reckless.

His laptop sat on his lap, and he typed ‘ _serial killers alive_ ’ in the search bar. He rolled his eyes at himself, scrolling through the list before he saw a rather familiar name glaring up at him: Hannibal Lecter.

He'd been caught before Will had been asked to get back out on the field, but he remembered reading and teaching about the Ripper’s kills. They were so meticulously done, so artful in their design. Will could almost find them beautiful if he looked far enough into Hannibal’s conscious.

He also happened to know that Hannibal Lecter was kept at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. How could he not know? Freddie Lounds wrote of nothing but Lecter for weeks after he'd been caught.

If Abel Gideon got so many letters, he could only wonder how many Hannibal got.

He didn't bother looking up the proper protocol for sending a letter to an inmate. If he was an FBI Consultant, then he obviously knew _something._ He wasn't an idiot, after all.

All he looked up was the address to BSHCI, jotting it down on a scrap piece of paper - a receipt from a nearby diner from lunch - then he shut his laptop. He set it on the couch beside him and walked to his desk where he usually made his lures. He carefully pushed those tools aside and instead pulled out a piece of paper from the notebook inside the drawer. Typically, this was used as a reminder of which lure he named after whom or as his grocery list. Yet his pages remained bare for the time being.

 _Dear Hannibal,_ he wrote before he was crumbling that paper and tossing it in the general direction of the trash can.

 _Dr. Lecter,_ he started this time after much consideration. Hannibal was probably tired of being looked down on by doctors and detectives and the guards in the hospital. The only way Will would be able to build a rapport between them was to respect him, and referring to him as his formal title was the first step to doing so. _My name is Will Graham. We have never met, but yet I feel like I know you in a way. I'm a teacher at the academy and a consultant for the FBI. Perhaps you know my boss, Jack Crawford._

_There is no particular reason why I'm writing to you; I suppose my best excuse would be that I am bored. You most likely know more about boredom than I do. There is no guarantee you'll get this letter, and if you do, even less of a guarantee that you'll reply. You must get hundreds of these by now. After all, you're the most famous serial killer of our time. A title to be celebrated._

_Will Graham_

He read over his letter once, twice, thrice, then folded it in half. He considered throwing it away and pretending like he had never even written it, but as he weighed the pros and cons of this idea, his hands were already filling out the envelope as if they had a mind of their own.

Once he'd sealed it, he carried it out to the mailbox and dropped it in before he could lose his courage. This was it. He was going to correspond with a serial killer outside of his job.

Perhaps Alana was right. Maybe Will did have an unhealthy tendency for seeking danger.

He thought of what he should do to change his ways as he let his dogs outside to roam about for a while.

*****************

He wished he could say that he forgot about the letter. And truthfully, he tried to push it to the back of his mind, but the harder he pushed it aside, the harder it fought to be at the forefront of his mind. His colleagues began noticing that something was up when he kept zoning out during a debriefing or at a crime scene or even in the morgue.

Though he typically said as little as possible, he seemed off. Even those who didn't know him well could tell that.

The case they were working at that point was one that was solved quickly. A totem pole of human bodies. Will could easily discern which bodies were most important to the killer and which were least important, which caught the man within 48 hours and got Will home earlier than usual.

It wasn’t until he’d returned home and let the dogs outside that he dared to look at the mail that had come that day. Electricity bill, water bill, paycheck, and -

_Oh._

A letter.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d received a personal letter, let alone one written in such a curved, intricate style. One glance at the return address told him everything he needed to know. This was written by the one, the only, the infamous - Hannibal Lecter.

_Mr. Graham,_

_I have heard of you. More specifically, I’ve heard of your special ability. Is it true you can get into the minds of killers - even those like me?_

Well. Will blinked at the first few sentences, wondering when this situation had turned against him. Hannibal knew just how to get straight to the point, that much was true.

_Tell me, Will - if I may call you that - what do you see when you think of me?_

_I’m afraid I cannot give you the opportunity of poking around inside my mind without you proving that you deserve the chance._

_I do look forward to your reply._

_Dr. Hannibal Lecter_

It took many long minutes for Will to grasp what had just happened, and even longer for him to stand up and let the dogs in where they were scratching at the door. Once they were in and fed, he sat down at his desk and pulled out his laptop.

There was nothing left to do but try and get inside of Hannibal Lecter’s mind.

Oh, and write him back.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK AND BETTER THAN EVER
> 
> I wrote a chapter in honor of HANNIBAL SEASON FOUR BEING A POSSIBILITY!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy! Be sure to leave comments and kudos if you liked it enough :)
> 
> Tumblr: ravcnstag

If there was one thing Hannibal hated, it was routine. Sure, there were some things about it that could be beneficial, but mostly, it was just tedious. 

When he was free to roam the earth as he pleased, he would pick a name from his Rolodex each time he got bored with his routine. There were no two murders of his that were the same, because murder wasn't  _ boring.  _

His routine in the BSHCI goes as follows: Wake up at 6:00, breakfast at 6:30, interview with Chilton at 11:00, lunch at 12:00, meds at 15:30, dinner at 17:30, bed at 22:00. 

He had plenty of time to be alone, yet no time at all to do what he wanted. 

His time between breakfast and his interview with Chilton was spent reading the letters he'd received and answering the ones that caught his eye. He responded to only a small percentage of them, and the person who'd written to him in the first place often got spooked and didn't write back again. 

Many letters were love letters from desperately bored men and women, claiming they were his soulmate and they wouldn't mind eating people so long as they could be with Hannibal. 

In the beginning, he’d respond and see how far he could go before he would get bored and toss them. Now, he just trashed them all. When would people learn to be interesting?

Another smaller portion of letters were from psychiatrists, psychologists, many unheard of but eager to get their names out there for being the first to get inside of Hannibal Lecter’s mind. 

Sometimes he'd answer those and see how long he could drag them along before they'd catch on, sometimes he tossed them. 

An even smaller, barely even notable, portion were from people like Will Graham. They didn't want inside his mind, and they didn't want to eat people with him; they just wanted to talk. Depending on what Hannibal felt like that day, he replied. 

It wasn't every day he got a letter from an FBI agent that wasn't wanting to interview him. He'd read Will’s letter over and over again, trying to understand why he had written him. 

He'd read about Will Graham before. He was one of Freddie Lounds’s favorite victims, so he'd had a multitude of articles written about him. Very rarely did one focus on the case itself; mostly they focused on Will’s instability. 

Or, as Freddie so kindly put it, his “alleged psychosis.”

There was no harm in writing back, he supposed, so he did.

 

*****************

 

Will woke up the next morning with a pain behind his eyes and in the right side of his neck. He slowly lifted his head up, wincing as his face pulled away from the keyboard of his laptop. 

The first thing that he noticed was he hadn’t made it to bed. The second was Winston nudging at his thigh, which he figured was his wake-up call. The third was the memory of what he’d fallen asleep trying to do - get into Hannibal’s mind.

He ran a hand over his face, standing up with a small groan as his stiff muscles were moved again. 

“Come on,” he mumbled, knowing the dogs would either hear him or realize where he was heading. He opened the door and let them all meander outside, each of them stretching as they stood for the first time that morning. Leaving the door open so they could go in and out as they pleased, he walked to the kitchen and poured some kibble into their bowls, then made sure they each had enough water to make it.

Then he went back to his laptop.

He’d left it open on pages and pages worth of photos from the crime scenes, and he felt a chill run up the length of his spine at the sight of them. He clicked on one, making it bigger so that he could get a better view of it. No view was a good one, but he needed to be able to see it to get inside the mind of a man like Hannibal Lecter. 

As he lost himself in his thoughts, he didn’t even realize he was writing.

He must have lost track of time, but when he looked at the paper in front of him, he’d written two pages full of thoughts he’d had while looking at the pictures. That in itself was enough to send a chill down his spine. 

He didn’t dare try to read what he’d written, knowing he’d only scare himself.

No, instead, he just folded up the papers and stuffed them inside another envelope to send to BSHCI, hoping he hadn’t written anything that would get  _ him  _ locked up next.

\-------

 

The first thing that hit him when he walked in the room was the smell. He moved his forearm to his nose, covering it to try and mask the smell of blood, vomit, and death.

He looked at the scene in front of him, freezing in his place as he slowly let his arm fall down back by his side.

“When did this happen?” Will asked, seeing Jack standing beside him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Time of death was last night between midnight and three am,” Jack responded with a sigh.

“This looks like…”

“The Ripper. Yes. That’s why you’re here.”

Will nodded his head, stepping toward the crime scene slowly. It was a perfect replication of the wound man, but this hadn’t been seen since Hannibal Lecter had done it years ago. Hannibal Lecter, who he had been communicating with like he was some unstable fan of his.

Unstable, yes, maybe, but not a fan. He was just curious, he told himself.

“Whoever did this has killed before,” he began, speaking to Jack as he slowly circled the mutilated body. “But he wasn’t getting recognized for it. Obviously he’s studied up on serial killers before, specifically the Chesapeake Ripper, so he’s… intelligent. But he’s insecure. He needs approval - not from just anyone - from the Ripper himself. I believe that this killer has tried to contact the Ripper, maybe even more than once, and maybe the Ripper encouraged him.”

He refused to use Hannibal’s name, because that would seem too personal, and he didn’t want to raise any red flags for Jack to use against him later on. That would prove to be disastrous for everyone.

“Okay,” Jack said, nodding for Price, Zeller, and Beverly to go back and look over the body once more before they could transport it to the morgue for further examination. “Will, you and I are taking a trip up to Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. We need access to all of Lecter’s correspondence, in and out.”

Will nodded numbly, hoping that his own letters wouldn’t be placed under scrutiny. The last thing he needed was to give the bureau more reason to think him unstable. This job was the only source of stability in his life, and he couldn’t risk losing it.

The drive there was a silent one, thankfully. Will never had to speak a word, though Jack called to let Chilton know that they would be arriving within the hour and that they intended on speaking to Hannibal Lecter.

“Everything okay?” Jack asked, pausing on the steps beside Will, who looked rather shaken.

“I’m always a little nervous going into one of these places. Afraid they’ll never let me out again,” he admitted. Jack was one he knew he could tell of his worries, because he would never report it to the bureau. No, he wouldn’t risk losing his most valuable asset.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to leave you here,” Jack assured, taking another moment before he was continuing up the steps.

“Not today,” Will muttered under his breath, following the man inside and to Chilton’s office.

“Dr. Chilton,” Jack said as they walked through the door, not giving the man a second to even open his mouth. “Jack Crawford. This is Will Graham.” They both showed their badges, but Chilton seemed more interested in Will’s than in Jack’s.

“I’ve heard about you, Will Graham,” he said, a small smirk on his lips as he eyed the temporary badge. “You are… quite the topic in psychiatric circles.”

“Am I?” Will muttered, not bothering to hide the distaste in his voice. 

“A unique cocktail of personality disorders and neuroses that makes you a highly skilled profiler.”

“Graham isn’t here to be analyzed,” Jack interrupted. He knew how much Will hated being psychoanalyzed, and for that, Will was grateful.

Chilton glanced toward Jack, then Will again before nodding. 

“Perhaps another day, then,” he invited. “Maybe you can speak with some of the staff here -- no, not on this trip. A special visit.”

“I’d rather not,” Will said. “I’d like to see Lecter now.”

“Ah, speaking of which,” Chilton said, suddenly reminded of something he had not previously mentioned. “I spoke to him of your visit and he told me he wished to speak to Will Graham.” He looked at Jack and said pointedly, “ _ Alone. _ ”

“Absolutely not,” Jack shook his head. “I have more experience with him. I should be in there leading the interview.”

“Dr. Lecter informed me that if I were to send you in there with Mr. Graham that he would not speak a word. If you would still like to go in there, however, I will not be the one to stop you. I only thought it best to tell you his request.”

“Jack,” Will said, looking over at him. “I can handle it. I know how to read him.”

“No, you don’t. I trust your ability more than anyone else, Will, but Lecter is different. He’s unreadable.”

“Nobody is unreadable,” Will said.

Jack sighed, looking at Dr. Chilton, then at Will again.

“Fine. But the second he gains control over the conversation, you get out of there. If he gets the upper hand, you can’t get it back. Do you understand?”

Within minutes, Will was walking alone down a corridor with cells on either side. He could see directly into them if he wanted to, but he didn’t dare look over at any inmates, no matter how much they yelled at him. No, he wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. Besides, he was rather distracted by his racing heart and trembling hands, because he would be face-to-face with Hannibal Lecter in mere moments. This was much sooner than he would have liked; he would have preferred to never seen him face-to-face. He’d heard stories of people who had tried to interview him. Many had gone insane, a few had killed themselves, and a couple were simply too traumatized to even talk about it. Hannibal had a way with manipulating people into doing exactly what he wanted them to do, and he hoped he was strong enough to be able to tell when such a thing was happening to him.

He stopped in front of the cell he was told, turning to face one of the most infamous serial killers in history. The man in question was standing behind a single desk in the center of his cell with a piece of paper in his hands.

“His body was turned into something beautiful. His body entwined with vines and branches of a tree, his chest split open, every major organ except his lungs replaced with flowers. It is intricate, meticulously planned, something to be celebrated. This is  _ your  _ design,” was the first thing out of Hannibal’s mouth. At first, Will didn’t recognize it, but then he remembered that he had written it down in his previous letter. “You know, Will, most people don’t refer to these murders as  _ beautiful.  _ These are not words of a man who is disgusted by these acts - no, these are the words of a man who  _ respects  _ them.”

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” Will greeted, opting to ignore his attempt of psychoanalyzing the parts of his mind he himself didn’t even fully understand. Hannibal let his hands, still holding the letter, fall by his sides then clasp behind his back as he finally allowed himself a look at Will Graham, the man who understood him, the man who showed no fear of him, the man who contacted him out of pure curiosity.

“Hello, Will,” he greeted, nodding once in recognition. “I heard you’d be stopping by. After reading your letter, I’m glad you did.” He sat down in his seat behind his desk and gestured for Will to take a seat in the small chair offered for him, likely set out when word of his visit first got out.

“I’m only here on business, I’m sure you’ve heard,” Will said, trying to stay focused on his sole reason for coming here. With Hannibal holding the letter he’d written days ago in his lap -- almost as if he was guarding it -- and looking at him with a knowing smirk, he was feeling rather exposed and unsettled, but he refused to let that show.

He tried to conjure up the confidence from someone else he knows -- maybe Alana, because she always seemed to keep herself together in situations such as these, with complicated patients -- but sitting across from Hannibal, he was splayed open and only able to use what he had inside of himself.

He didn’t know if that scared him or excited him.

“Ah, the killer who has been copying my own kills,” Hannibal hummed, glancing down at what may have been a newspaper clipping, though Will couldn’t be sure with his perspective. “I’ve heard of him. What do you think of it, Will?”

“Actually, I came to ask you the questions, if that’s quite alright,” Will stiffened slightly, not wanting to get into this killer’s mind and risk being in a more vulnerable state of mind while across from someone so infamously manipulative. “We think this person may have tried to contact you before or after the murders. Do you recall reading a letter from an… admirer who may have seemed like he could do this?”

“Don’t be rude, dear Will,” Hannibal chastised, avoiding the question. I asked you a question first, did I not? If you answer mine, I will answer yours. Wouldn’t that be fair?”

_ The second he gains control over the conversation, you get out of there,  _ Jack had warned him, but Will was nothing if not stubborn.

“Fine,” he agreed. Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but Will was sure he saw a glint of amusement in his eyes. 

_ If he gets the upper hand, you can’t get it back. _

“This murder is a physically perfect replication of yours, except that the organs were taken post-mortem. Every wound is perfectly placed as you inflicted upon your victim, but… the feeling isn’t there. There’s nothing that makes this murder his instead of yours, which shows that he’s likely separating himself from this crime. Maybe he doesn’t even know what he’s done, or… or maybe he does. This isn’t his first kill. This is someone who’s killed before and gotten away with it. He probably could have gotten away with it forever if he hadn’t become fascinated with you and wanted to get your attention. He wanted you to know he was out there, carrying on your legacy.”

By the time Will was done and he opened his eyes, he saw Hannibal staring at him with a look he couldn’t quite decipher. He hoped it was just that the room had gotten hotter and his cheeks weren’t reddening.

“No such man has ever written to me. I’m sure I would remember if he had,” Hannibal finally said, seeming rather confident in his answer.

Will should have pushed more, he realized, but he knew he would get nothing more out of the man, so he simply nodded and stood from his chair. He was ready to leave; this visit had worn him down in more ways than one. He needed time to recharge after something so inexplicably intense.

“I will be leaving my number with Dr. Chilton. If, at any time, you remember something else, feel free to ask for phone privileges. He has orders to allow that to aid our investigation. If nothing else, then… you can always write.”

“I will speak to you soon, Will,” Hannibal nodded, standing with him.

If Will wasn’t mistaken, Hannibal had the tiniest of smiles on his lips as he walked away.

Maybe he’d be getting a phone call soon.

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably make it known that the cases will not go in order and will only be put in where I see fit.


End file.
